


Excerpts

by nobleanchor



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Author cannot finish a fic to save her life, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9315482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobleanchor/pseuds/nobleanchor
Summary: I've decided to share some excerpts from various WIP that may otherwise never see the light of day, so consider these one-shots! Ratings will vary chapter to chapter, and I'll add appropriate tags with each update. Modern AU & Canon AU.





	1. Mischief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur watches her stroke the creature and he feels the push again—some boyish yearning to impress her, to keep that quiet, joyous light in her eyes—but he’s not certain how.
> 
> Canon AU.

When Camelot receives visitors he wakes before dawn to sneak into the lower town and tap at her door, for her ears only.

She greets his shadowed face with a sleepy smile, though he suspects she’d been near to waking for her duties anyway.

“Come on,” he says with a grin, tugging at her hand. “I’ve something to show you.”

She glances behind her where Tom sleeps, grabbing her cloak and extinguishing a few candles before letting him whisk her out the door and into the misty morning.

They take the long way round the stables to avoid detection and step light-footed over sleeping stable hands, boots thoroughly muddied from the dewy meadow.

“Over here,” Arthur whispers, taking her hand once more and leading her to a stall near the end of the row.

He has to lift her in order to see, and she barely contains a gasp.

“He’s beautiful,” she says reverently, extending a tentative hand and glancing over her shoulder until Arthur nods in encouragement.

The horse snorts, turning its head, then sighs as Gwen’s small hand tenderly brushes along its cheek.

Warmth unfurls within him as Arthur watches her stroke the creature and he feels the push again—some boyish yearning to impress her, to keep that quiet, joyous light in her eyes—but he’s not certain how.

What he knows is that it’s not the fourteen-course feasts, the week-long tournaments, or the splendor of visiting kings that does it. 

It’s when the moon feels closer, pressing in on them with cold light; it’s the fresh pot of ink he lays before her during their lessons; and the noble tread of a tiny bird’s feet on fresh snow. They are small things he never noticed, and now he catches himself looking for them as he looks for that light to return to her eyes.

“Who does he belong to?” she whispers, turning so she can see Arthur’s face. Her body leans softly against his.

He likes the feel of it a lot.

“Lord Harold, I believe.” He reaches over her shoulder to stroke the horse’s muzzle, distracted by the contrast of her small brown hand next to his larger pale one. “His name is Apollo.”

“Ah,” she smiles. “I’ve heard of it; it’s very fitting.” And then she giggles.

“What?”

“It’s nothing, sire,” she says, leaving him entirely unconvinced.

“Tell me.” He squeezes her middle, eliciting a little yelp that makes them both freeze in fear that they might have disturbed the fragile hush.

After several moments of silence stretch, broken only by a loud snore, they relax.

“Well?” he prods, lowering his voice to a whisper once more.

“It’s silly.”

“I delight in silly things.”

“No you don’t,” she snorts.

“With you, I do,” he retorts. 

“I was just thinking…” She lowers her eyes. “If you were a horse, you might be called Apollo.”

“Not Arthur?”

“No, Arthur is much too ordinary. That is,  _you’re_  not ordinary,” she begins to backtrack. “But horses always have grand names, don’t they?" 

She traces the pads of her fingers along Apollo’s muzzle, smiling as the horse flicks its ears. "They’re quiet creatures, but their beauty and strength are there for all to see. People put their hopes and aspirations into naming a horse.”

He considers her words, admiring the softness of her eyes and the grace with which she speaks and articulates her thoughts; this small, industrious and infinitely optimistic woman whom most would consider less learned and noble than he. To him, it is a treasonous thought.

He has never met someone so pure of spirit as Guinevere.

“What would your name be?” he wonders aloud.

It should have been a silly game, but nonetheless he imagines she would be just as sweet, just as beautiful and dignified as the magnificent beast they had come to visit.

“I don’t know,” she tilts her head. “Worthy, at least, I hope,” she gives a small  huff of laughter.

“Oh, much more than that, I think. Your name might be Courage, or Wisdom, or Beauty, or… Well, none of those are quite enough, are they?”

Her expression lances his heart with no small grief as it dawns on him how common she thinks herself.

His lips part, further words of admiration he’d dared not speak lingering on his tongue. But as he holds her gaze he can feel the doubt waning from her.

Impulsively, he dips his head; catches her wide eyes and parted lips just before he touches his mouth to hers. He has only a moment to consider how soft and yielding her lips feel beneath his before their shape changes and she presses them back. 

Somebody sighs. It might have been him, but he can’t tell because he’s parting his lips and they still, panting against each other. He’s not sure if he imagines the velvety caress of her tongue tracing his bottom lip but then—

A rooster crows in the distance, shattering the thickness between them. The stable boy slumped against a wooden beam stirs, and Arthur takes Gwen’s wrist gently to guide her away.

Sunlight wavers on the horizon, chasing away the cold of night. They slip around the back of the stables, ducking behind a cart filled with hay until they are sure the coast is clear.

“Surely you’re allowed to visit your own stables whenever you like?” she asks him, still breathless as they wait, and picks a stray piece of straw from his otherwise immaculate cloak.

“Well, perhaps,” he reasons, then raises his eyebrows with a grin. “But where’s the adventure in that?”

“I take it back,” she whispers. “Your name is Mischief.”


	2. Plus One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I'm standing in Debenhams holding monogrammed cheese knives and I don't know what I'm doing with my life."_
> 
> Wedding date Modern AU.

"Help."

"Don’t tell me you’ve been kidnapped," Arthur groaned, voice all in his throat. The doughy crinkling of his blankets confirmed he was still in bed. "It's too early for kidnappings."

_ Oops. _ She hadn't considered the time. "No. I'm standing in Debenhams holding monogrammed cheese knives and I don't know what I'm doing with my life."

"Don't do it Gwen," he droned. "There's so much to live for."

"I just realized I don't have any cheese knives. I never even considered having my own cheese knives, and here I am buying them for someone who should have been marrying me."

"Mn."

She knew he was hardly listening, but somehow it helped to say the words anyway.

"Nobody told me I was supposed to have these when I became an adult."

He sighed. "Drop the knives. Get him a strap-on and tell him to go fuck himself."

She shook her head, Arthur's voice finally helping her snap out of it. "I don't think that's how strap-ons work."

"Why are you even buying the bugger anything? Isn't attending his engagement party enough?"

"I have no idea," she glanced down one aisle at the enticing gleam of posh countertop appliances, finding it abandoned apart from the odd worker restocking shelves. Espresso machines were definitely not in the budget. "But I don't want to be the one who doesn't bring a gift."

"It's half nine, Guinevere."

"So?" Gwen finds her feet again and begins to wander the next aisle of utensils, picking up odds and ends and putting them back down when she realized she'd no idea of their use.

How small a gift could she get away with, without being petty? She eyes a toothpick dispenser and imagines the postage and stationery for the thank you note would cost more. Satisfying as it was, the thought alone put her at her limit for passive aggression.

It'd have to be the cheese knives. Elegant, functional, and appropriate for most occasions.

On the other end of the line, Arthur draws in a deep breath and laughs as he blows it out. "Shouldn't you be sleeping in like normal people do on Saturdays?"

His voice strains as he stretches, the floor creaking under his weight as he shuffles across his bedroom. If it weren’t inadvisable to do so, she could almost picture him in his underwear, running a hand through his sleep rumpled hair.

"I can't sleep in. I've got too much to do."

The telltale suction of his fridge door opening is all the warning she gets before she hears him gulping something down.

"You're disgusting, you know that?" She scoffs. "Can't you just drink out of a glass like a civilized human being?"

"Mm," he grunts again, but there's a grin creeping into his voice. "Probably. Except we're not roommates anymore so you can't stop me. Maybe you should pick one up for me while you're out."

"I'll talk to you later," Gwen rolls her eyes when she finds herself in front of the check stand without remembering how she'd got there.

"Gwen." His voice stops her hanging up.

"Hmm?"

"Meet me at the Sun."

"Okay."

 

 

"How'd it go last night?"

Across the table from her, Arthur winces and opts for stuffing his face with a bite of sausage.

Gwen laughs. "It can't have been that bad. What did she say that put you off?"

His shoulders heave and he sets his fork down. "Nothing. In fact, the conversation was great. It was just like talking to one of my mates."

"What's the problem, then?"

"Exactly that."

"Oh, come on. Merlin and I saw her profile pictures; we know she's gorgeous. You can't tell me you aren't attracted to her."

Arthur shrugs. "I can acknowledge she's attractive without being attracted to her."

"That makes zero sense."

"What I mean is she's a friend, and anything more than that would be...weird. We both had a bad feeling going into the date anyway." His eyes fall to her phone on the table between them as it lights up with a new text message. "Like you and Merlin. You get on perfectly but obviously nothing would ever happen."

"You really think so?" she arches a brow, then turns her attention back to the text she'd just received.

"What do you mean  _ really _ ?" Arthur frowns, stabbing his fork at another bite. "You don't actually think Merlin likes you, do you?"

She shrugs. "No, but that doesn't mean I've never liked him."

"Wait, what? You and Merlin? When was this?"

"Eh, years ago," she waved a dismissive hand.

"Really, Guinevere. He'd make an awful boyfriend!"

"You would know."

"Shut up."

She laughs. "You wouldn't last long. In fact, I think you'd be the worse boyfriend."

"And just how do you figure that? I could be the best you ever had."

"I didn't mean for me," her fingers freeze over her phone as she looks up, re-examining him. "I meant for Merlin."

The defensiveness drains out of him, the worry on his face replaced by his usual careless expression.

"I meant... You in general. Neither of you deserves me, anyway," he jokes.

Gwen hums to herself, eyeing him. "We may have the opportunity to test that out."

"Oh?"

She waves her phone. "Merlin just confirmed he can't make it. It's going to be dreadful and I need a date to stave off the pitiful looks."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a natural saleswoman?"

"I know it doesn't sound great, but you'd be with me. We'll drink and make fun of snobby people."

Arthur looks dubious. They were, of course,  _ his _ people. "Will there be food?"

"There's bound to be."

"Will I have to dress up?"

She gives him a look over, as if she hadn't noticed his outfit before. For some reason, unshowered and unshaven as he is, his dark jeans and t-shirt look more presentable on him than they would on anyone else. That was Arthur, though: effortless. "Nicer than this, but you don't need a tuxedo or anything."

"Would this gathering have anything to do with a set of cheese knives?"

"What gave it away?" She sighed. "Yes, it's the engagement party."

"I still can't believe he invited you. It's a bit cruel and unusual if you ask me."

"It might be, if Lance and I hadn't each bluffed our way into an uncomfortable friendship." Not for the first time, she lamented her insistence that they could still be friends, despite everything.

"Can't you just send him the bloody cheese knives and tell him you're going to be on holiday?"

"It's next weekend and I've already RSVPed. Plus one."

"Ah." Arthur runs an index finger along his lips as he often does when he's reading between the lines. His gaze drops to his plate, and he uses his last piece of toast to gather what remains of his breakfast. "So, how jealous are we aiming for?"

It was no use denying it. The man had the nerve to invite her in the first place. Unchecked, this was likely to become an elaborate game of chicken. 

"Just a little."

 

 

The party is annoyingly tasteful; mostly annoying because it is exactly as she would have planned it, had it been for her and Lance.

So there is  _ that _ thought out of the way.

“Wait up,” Arthur emerges from the car, smoothing his tie down.

Gwen glances back and pauses for a moment to appreciate him. The man has shown up for her, and he looks... _ good _ .

More destructive thoughts.  _ Do not ogle your best friend. _

Gwen’s attraction to Arthur is like the obnoxious engine light in her car that she ignores because she can’t bear the consequences of confronting it.

The fact is he is completely dateable, and completely off limits. 

There were moments--each cataloged meticulously in her memory--when she thought the attraction might be mutual. And in those moments, she imagined it would be so easy to cross the threshold, to fall into bed with him, and to do the whole his-and-hers routine. But the idea that it wouldn’t last longer than their unblemished friendship would is enough to sour her fantasy.

Besides, he’d want to pay for everything and she’d resent him for it. He’d never learn to do the bloody dishes, and she is sure he’d be disappointed in her subpar capacity for poncy social engagements.

Yes, she’d already hashed the whole imaginary relationship out in her mind to its inevitable conclusion, and each simulation ended the same: with Gwen, still single, but also short an amazing, frustrating, Arthur-shaped best friend.

Now if only her logical brain could speak to her heart, her pulse, her sex drive about why she shouldn’t care what he looks like in a suit.

His touch at her lower back derails her thoughts and she shakes herself out of it, allowing him to guide her forward through the entrance.

Of course, Lance has chosen her favorite flowers to adorn the venue. She likes to think Lance had a direct say in the decorations because it makes her feel better about being annoyed at the situation.

_ These ones are perfect, _ he’d likely said.  _ Gwen will surely notice them. _

“Arthur?” 

It’s  _ her _ , Lance’s fiance, floating toward them, demure and lovely as all of the pictures she’d seen.

“Bloody hell,” Arthur said through teeth gritted into a smile. 

“I had no idea--I mean, do you know Lance?”

“He’s...er, only through Guinevere, here,” Arthur said, shoving Gwen in front of him a bit.

“Hello,” Gwen waved awkwardly. “Lovely to meet you finally.”

“Oh, you too,” she frowned as if trying to remember something. “Guinevere, is it?”

Gwen nodded. Who could blame her? Apparently three years was hardly a footnote in Lance’s book. “Er, congratulations!” she said belatedly, with probably too much enthusiasm.

“Thank you, we’re so delighted you could come. Enjoy yourselves,” she looked between them, and then turned to greet another guest.

“What was that all--?”

“Come on,” Arthur’s knees close behind her scooted her onward. “We’re going to the bar.”

 

 

“I don’t understand. How could that be your ex?”

Arthur sighed. “Do you remember that summer I went away?”

“Yeah?”

“And I met someone--”

Gwen’s eyes widened. “Wait, she’s the Cornish hen?”

“I wish you guys wouldn’t have called her that. I never said she was Cornish. I said we met while I was in Cornwall.” Then, he rolled his eyes at himself. “Nevermind, why do I even care anymore?”

“She’s pretty,” Gwen arched a brow, taking a sip of her drink as they both glanced over the bride-to-be. “Really pretty.”

Arthur shrugged as if to say,  _ of course she is _ .

“Wait a minute,” Gwen said as she watched him watch her. She set her drink down, tugging his arm with a little force to get him out of Lalaland. “You don’t still…?”

“Oh, please,” he said with a little too much annoyance. “That was ages ago. Of course I’m not…”

“Do you want to leave?”

“What? No, I’m fine. I’m here for you, remember? We’re meant to get drunk and eat all of their expensive catering.”

“Right,” Gwen laughed. Yet neither of them felt particularly disposed toward their drinks at the moment. “I know I brought you here because of Lance. But, you know, I could be here for you too.”

He gave her a meaningful look. A look which said,  _ I know what you’re suggesting and I’m above it. _

So they stood in their corner for a few minutes, watching the crowd mingle. Watching all of the happy couple’s friends--equally, off puttingly happy couples--congratulating each other on their successes.

And then, with a heavy sigh and another glance around the room, Arthur picked up his drink and took a healthy sip.

“Sod it,” he said, setting it down and grabbing her hand to pull her over to the dance area.

“What’s the plan?”

“Do we need one?” He raised a brow, yanking her flush to him. “Put your arms around my neck and let’s dance.”

Gwen didn’t need to be told twice.


	3. Fishing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I never knew you could be so brutal, Guinevere."
> 
> Canon AU.

"Haven't you ever caught a fish, my lord?"

"Caught them, yes. There's always someone else to clean them, though."

She sighed. "How have you made it thus far?"

He had no answer, but she hadn't expected one. Already she was moving closer to take the line from his hands.

Deftly, she removed the hook from its gaping mouth and set the line down away from them. Freed, the fish began to thrash in her small hands.

"You have to do it quickly, like this." She slapped the fish against the rock, rendering it limp in her hand.

Arthur was impressed. "I never knew you could be so brutal, Guinevere."

"It's the kindest way," she shrugged, wrapping it and placing it in her basket. "I'll make at least two meals and some stock from that."

"Now _that_ I would have more trouble with. It's a good thing I've never been required to cook beyond torching something over a fire."

Her lips pressed into a disapproving frown. "I don't see why. I suppose you'll have servants your whole life to do it, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't know how."

"It would be wasted on me."

"You might appreciate it more." She sounded like his nurse from childhood.

"I appreciate you," he smiled. Resting his elbows on his knees, he let his hands dangle between them.

Gwen narrowed her eyes. "Well someone has taught you _something_ then."

He caught her hand and held it for a moment and she allowed herself to exchange a smile with him, until a sadistic laugh bubbled up.

"What?"

"I've got fish on my hands."

"Eugh!" he dropped her hand immediately, making a show of it.

Her laughter became full throated as he wiped his hands on his trousers, then looked up again with amusement in his eyes.

"I think I've found your weakness, sire."

"Oh? Fish slime, is it?"

She nodded with a snort, pressing the back of her hand to her nose.

"You mustn't tell anyone, Guinevere. It's a state secret," he winked. "Are you alright?"

Her face had clouded with something.

"Yes," she assured him, though she shook her head. "It's funny. It's just... I've the strangest feeling I've been here before. With you, having this very conversation."

But his thoughts were far from comedy, because it was becoming increasingly evident that _she_ was his weakness. And gods forbid anyone that wished him harm found that out.

It made him shiver and he glanced around the surrounding forest, imagining all manner of enemies hiding in waiting.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. We should probably go back soon. It's nearly supper and father will be expecting me."

She nodded, lifting her skirts and stepping barefoot from the water.

Something about her small, naked feet sent a wave of protectiveness through him and he had the absurd longing to cradle them in his lap as she sat beside him.

"Looks like you're nearly finished with those," he observed casually as she slipped her worn shoes back on.

"Oh, not as long as I can mend them," she smiled. "They'll last me a while longer, I hope."

"I've seen the kind for sale at market. Why not treat yourself? You work hard enough."

"What, new shoes?" She seemed genuinely amused, her eyes sparkling. "When we haven't enough to replace my father's tools for the smithy yet? I think not."

As she stood to dust herself off, Arthur took the basket and followed her down the trail.

  

A week later Gwen found a brand new pair of shoes sitting neatly at her doorstep without so much as a note. She shook her head and bit back a smile, looking around before taking them inside.

No one seemed to take notice, _especially_ not the guard that was posted a few yards away near the butcher's.

Arthur was going to have a stern talking to, she promised herself as she stroked the soft leather. They were finer than any pair she'd ever owned, and they fit perfectly.

Glancing at her older pair, she decided they would keep and stored them away for the moment. Perhaps she'd donate them to the seamstress whose brood seemed to be growing at an alarming rate.

"Guinevere," he smiled when he saw her later. She probably wasn't meant to catch his eyes slipping down to her feet and back, but Arthur was not exactly an expert in subtlety. "You look...well."

"I am, sire. I've acquired a new pair of shoes, as it happens."

"Oh?" his frown held exaggerated nonchalance.

"You wouldn't have a guess as to where I got them, would you?"

"I've no idea. I would suppose there are any number of cobblers and vendors that supply them."

She narrowed her eyes. "Indeed."

"Shall we get to it, then?"

"Very well."

She returned that evening with a warm glow in her heart like the strange, tiny firefly Arthur had brought back to her once trapped there. She found her father at his work bench, distracted.

"Everything alright?"

"Hmm? Yes, alright."

"Did you finish the commission?"

"Just fine, yes. It's on the back table, ready for delivery in the morning. Thank you again, dear."

"Of course," she smiled.

"There was one odd thing," he frowned, puzzling. "I can't quite... There was a set of new hammers and swages in the doorway when I came back from town this afternoon. I thought perhaps they'd been left by mistake, but by whom?"

Gwen nearly dropped the kettle she was holding, gritting her teeth.

"I suppose it was a gift," she suggested, keeping her voice light. "How kind of someone."

"Yes, but who would do such a thing? And who even knew that I needed--"

"Best just accept it and be thankful, don't you think? There are many who wish us well."

"Not quite so extravagantly. I'm not sure what to make of it. What if it's someone who wishes a favor of me?"

She set a hand over her father's. "Take it as a reward for your hard work, father. Perhaps it is an advance for your commission. I'll be sure to thank them when I make the delivery tomorrow."

 

Despite his best laid plans, it was an argument that preambled their next lesson.

"How am I to account for a brand new set of instruments presented to my father without explanation?"

Arthur opened his mouth but no words escaped.

"You're very generous, my lord, and I thank you for that, but I fear things are becoming more complicated than we intended."

"Guinevere, I didn't mean to upset you. I only wanted to help."

"I know. I can see that, and it's kind of you, but it's making it difficult to keep our arrangement secret."

"It shouldn't be," he pouted. "It shouldn't have to be a secret. It's shameful that we cannot-that you and I-" he sighed, and then his voice softened. "Guinevere, I-"

"It's best this way," she said quickly, afraid to hear what he was going to say. "We knew that when we started. I do not like it either, but I can live with it for now."

Giving him a hopeful smile, she changed the subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imaginary fish were harmed in the writing of this chapter. Sorry? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. Model AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what Vivian envied most about Gwen’s job: the license to stare at men’s crotches to her heart’s content. Hell, no one would blink if she swapped for her zoom lens.
> 
> Underwear Model AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lolllll I know nothing about modeling, but I'd like to thank the writers of Damien for the gratuitous stripping scenes that inspired this fic.

Today’s set is staged with a lovely, inviting bed, meticulously rumpled to looked lived in. Mithian knows what she’s doing. 

Gwen wonders if she wouldn’t have accomplished the same look by just rolling around on top of the duvet, but then again, she’s not a stylist.

Most of the day will be spent atop a ladder shooting Arthur Pendragon. With a camera. Although sometimes she feels like shooting him with other things, notwithstanding her inconvenient attraction to him.

She knows he’s in the studio already because she’s seen the stylists flitting in and out of hair and makeup like they do when they’re trying to keep him happy.

The girls he’s shooting with today are here as well, modeling pretty matching bra and underwear sets that Gwen wishes she owned. On some days, she is lucky if she can get her socks to match.

When Arthur comes out, he doesn’t speak to her. This is probably for the better, she tells herself. If they can be professional with one another, they won’t run the risk of tearing each other’s throats out.

_Or tearing each other’s clothes off._ Not that Arthur has much to take off at the moment.

Gwen is Very Busy adjusting her camera settings, though she occasionally lets her eyes wander to where he consults with Mithian. After a long discussion, he finally climbs onto the bed and lies back on the duvet.

Mithian and her assistants move around the bed, folding and tucking here, artfully adjusting wrinkles there.

Gwen signals for the lighting technician to adjust the angle, motioning when she finds what she is looking for. It’s not perfect, as much as she tries to mimic the way the natural light from the windows in her flat hits her own bed, but it will do. She shakes off the momentary fantasy of inviting all of the models, hair and makeup artists, stylists, and set assistants into her tiny flat. Of Arthur, in her bed.

That cannot happen. _Must_ not happen.

The man in question is currently lying below her, looking bored but patient nonetheless. Gwen really wishes she didn’t know how much he's being paid.

She takes a few test shots when he isn’t paying attention. Annoyingly, he looks great; he’s still, and almost like the _Creation of Adam_ , his body full of raw potential as he lounges with arms outstretched. Around him, the blurred figures of the styling assistants in their black ensembles frame the bed.  

Gwen likes the shot so much, she thinks it could almost be used in an editorial spread. She files that idea away for future discussion, and sets to her last checks while Mithian finishes up.

With shooting underway, Gwen is free to admire his form again. From a professional perspective, of course.

Arthur knows exactly what to do with his body; he creates shapes, lengthens lines, finds the perfect angles; he knows where to find the balance between engaged and distant.

Sometimes she feels his gaze a bit too warmly through the lens. Sometimes, she misses it when he turns away.

Whatever she feels about him as a person, he makes a magnificent subject.

They take a brief break, and Gwen hands off her camera to Freya to go to the loo.

When she returns, Arthur is joined by a brunette Gwen hasn’t met before. Mithian keeps referring to her as Gigi, and Gwen wonders if it’s her real name or if it’s just a posh nickname she’s come up with.

Like the others, she’s just under six feet, yet somehow dainty. Her legs are lean, not overly muscular, and point with the delicate arches of her feet; her breasts like two perfect apples, perched in the elegant lacy push-up she’s modeling.

Gwen guesses she is about twenty-two, and probably at the peak of her career. She’s certainly comfortable cuddling up to Arthur in the initial set up for the shot.

“Great,” Gwen says. She’s given minimal direction this morning, but she’s not sure if it’s because there’s so little to give, or if it’s because she’s feeling unusually taciturn.

The stylists are constantly adjusting Gigi’s bra for optimal cleavage, but they get a run of a few dozen shots that look amazing.

At least, that’s what Gwen thinks. Concentrating has become difficult since Arthur’s hooded gaze seems to be looking straight through her.

A lazy warmth spreads to her extremities. She feels betrayed by her own body and its cheap attraction to a man she can hardly hold a conversation with. She, the sodding professional, could not distinguish herself from the hormonal teenagers that pinned Arthur's adverts to their bedroom walls, fodder for fantasy.

He moves his hands strategically over the model’s body, resting them on her hips, her back, the top of her rear.

Gwen almost feels as if he’s touching _her_ in those places, and at one point she fakes a sneeze just to hide her expression in her elbow for a moment.

She wants to complain it’s _too_ sexy, but her tongue feels thick whenever she opens her mouth to give direction and she swallows the words back instead. 

He makes Gigi look good, though Gwen's not sure how hard that could be. Worst of all, she knows Morgause would love it.

Because it’s perfect. Arthur is a professional. Even as he renders Gwen flustered under her own professional facade, he’s conscious of the product he’s selling. He makes sure never to obscure them. He never _poses_ , but his movements are small. Fluid. Controlled.

Arthur was afforded privileges that most female models were not; he’d never be just another pair of artfully posed breasts and legs intended for the masculine gaze. He'd never be told his stance was too confrontational, nor did he need to worry that his face—a brand and selling point of its own—would be cropped from the final campaign images. Instead, he held the viewer captive with his own commanding gaze, daring them to look elsewhere.

It did, undoubtedly, make for a compelling picture.

Gwen cleared her throat. "I think we've got it."

Arthur extricated himself from Gigi and took the water bottle one of the set interns offered him.

"You're awfully quiet," he observed.

"Not much to say," Gwen replied. Fixated on taking her equipment down so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him. "You know what you're doing."

His confident figure is a hard wall of golden skin in her peripheral vision, impossible to ignore.

"Of course I do, but this was supposed to be Morgause's shoot. I hope it meets her exacting standards."

“What are you implying?” Gwen glances up, feeling at once indignant and caught out. Blood thrumming at the unspoken accusation, she hopes she’d simply mistaken his intent. "I’d never compromise the quality of my work."

But no, like the tightening grip on his water bottle, his gaze is punishing. "Maybe it's down to your inexperience—"

"Excuse me?"

“I’m saying we’re both invested in the success of this campaign, and we don’t have time for reshoots. If you really knew what you were doing, you'd be speaking up.”

Heat flames her cheeks, her preoccupations thoroughly repulsed. How could she ever have been attracted to such an arrogant jerk?

“You’re right,” she starts, watching his shoulders straighten with smug satisfaction at her words. “I have zero motivation to do a reshoot with you. I’m not Morgause, and I’m not going to hold your hand. So here’s my direction: You do _your_ job, and I’ll do mine.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches. Whatever snark he has to return—and she can see it, the insults, the condescension, festering behind his eyes—he judiciously reserves as Mithian floats by.

“Everything good?”

“Fine,” Gwen says as Arthur nods tightly.

Mithian lingers a moment before moving on, reasonably convinced there will be no bloodshed.

Livid, Gwen couldn’t have promised her as much. She turns back to disassembling her equipment, to ignoring Arthur. She can’t bear to look at him just now. Wonders how they’ll weather the remainder of the campaign shoot. Can’t seem to sort the urge to shout him out of the studio from the urge to shove him down and fuck him, nor which lesson he'd respond most effectively to.

He stalks off before she can decide, but by the volatile look in his eyes, now seared in her mind, it’s tempting to assume he faces the same dilemma.

Of one thing she's certain: it's going to be a long assignment.


End file.
